


The Mark

by Mer



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-17
Updated: 2009-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 05:44:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mer/pseuds/Mer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hutch's soft side, seen through his partner's eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mark

"Hey Starsk, can you lend me five dollars? I'm short for lunch."

I can't help rolling my eyes heavenward, because I know where those five dollars went. My partner's a mark, a sucker, an easy touch. All right, I'm exaggerating, but honestly, neither Hutch nor his wallet is safe from a sob story. I can guarantee you he had cash this morning, because he paid for his coffee with a ten. Problem is, between the coffee shop and the car, we passed a couple of panhandlers, and that took care of his change. Then we stopped to talk to one of our regular snitches, old Joe, who wasn't looking too hot. When Hutch went back, pretending he'd forgotten to ask Joe something, I knew he'd be returning with an empty wallet.

I don't encourage him to spread his paycheque like that about the city, but I don't argue with him either. At least not since the last time his dad was in town on business.

We were coming back from dinner -- I don't always see eye to eye with Hutchinson senior, but he's got great taste in restaurants -- and we passed by a couple of street kids sitting in front of a storefront. "Spare some change?" they asked. I made eye contact, shaking my head apologetically, and saw that one of them had a puppy. Which meant Hutch was about as likely to pass by as I am of becoming Queen of England. Like I said, he's a sucker for sob stories. Throw in an animal and he's a goner.

Sure enough, he stops and starts fishing through his pockets for some change. Finally he pulled out his wallet and gave the kids some bills. "If you have any trouble," he said, giving them one of his cards, "call me."

Nobody said anything during this exchange, but I could see Mr. Hutchinson glaring at his son. He's not big on public scenes, however, so he waited until we were out of earshot before making his opinions known. "Jesus, Ken. I thought I taught you the value of money better than that. They're just going to use it to buy alcohol or drugs."

Hutch gave his father the look he reserves for when he's about to play bad cop in the interrogation room. "I understand very well the value of money. I understand that a couple of dollars to you or me doesn't really mean all that much, but to those kids it could be the difference between eating tonight and going hungry. Maybe they will use it for booze or drugs. And maybe that's the only thing that'll get them through the day. You don't know what their life is like, what they're running from. When was the last time you were really hungry? When was the last time you had to worry about where you were going to sleep? You have no idea what it's like to need a fix so badly every cell in your body screams with pain."

I put a hand on Hutch's shoulder, trying to deflect him. This wasn't a path he wanted to go down with his father. He shrugged me off, but then he nodded and gave me a tight little smile. "All I know is that it's not up to me to judge them, only help them if I can."

There was something in Mr. Hutchinson's eyes then, surprise and maybe a little admiration, and I realized he liked that kind of spark from his son. Don't get me wrong, Hutch, he's a stand- up guy, doesn't take nothing from nobody, but I get the feeling he pretty much toed the line when he was a kid. To busy trying to be the perfect son, if you know what I mean, to rebel. At least until he decided to become a cop and even then he had to go halfway across the country to do it. Anyway, Mr. Hutchinson let the matter drop, which is something I've noticed he doesn't do very often.

After we dropped his dad at the hotel, I dragged Hutch off for a beer. I could tell he was still brooding about the confrontation with his father by the way he kept turning his glass around on the table, not drinking. By the way that little line between his eyebrows got deeper and deeper. By the way he didn't even look up when a gorgeous lady walked by.

"What's up?" I asked finally.

He blinked slowly at me, then frowned. "I'm just wondering if those kids are going to be okay."

"There's nothing you can do, Hutch. You'll make yourself crazy worrying about every street kid, every bum on the corner."

"Who's going to worry about them, then?" he snapped, then sighed. "I just keep thinking, there but for the grace of God..."

I knew, of course, what he was thinking, but he was so far wrong it was ridiculous. "You think because of what Forrest did to you, you could have ended up on the streets?"

But he shook his head. "No, that's not what I meant." He paused and spun his glass some more. "Well, maybe that's part of it. There but for the grace of David Starsky..."

That kind of talk makes me uncomfortable. Hell, Hutch is my partner, my best friend. I'd do anything for him and I know it goes both ways. "That was you, Hutch. You didn't choose the habit, but you chose to kick it. I'm glad I was there to help you, but you would have done it with or without me."

There was doubt in his eyes, and even I couldn't help remembering how he had screamed for the heroin, begging and pleading until I thought my heart would break. "Maybe, maybe not. But I can understand how easy it is to take the wrong turn, to keep heading the wrong way until you've gone so far you can't find your way back." His blue eyes were shadowed until they seemed almost gray. "But I was thinking of something else. Of how lucky I am, how lucky I've always been. When I think of the lives some of those kids have lived..."

Hutch and his middle-class guilt. He thinks just because his parents gave him everything money could buy, he has no right to complain about his childhood. My family never had any money, but I wouldn't have traded with Hutch for all the stocks in his Dad's portfolio. "We've run into plenty of rich kids who've gone bad. Not to mention lots of people who have built themselves up from nothing."

He looked at me appraisingly. "True enough. I'm not saying character has nothing to do with it. I just think... I just think we have a responsibility to make things better. What's the point of being a policeman if we can't help the people who need it most?"

That's my partner. The White Knight, Marcos called him. Psycho Simon had more than his share of freaky ideas, but he was dead on about Hutch. The White Knight, riding his charger through the mean streets, searching for damsels in distress, fighting for the poor and oppressed, doing battle with the drug lords and the crime barons. Except this ain't no fairy tale, the good guys don't always win, and hardly anyone lives happily ever after. And day by day, the knowledge of that eats at him and leaks away his faith like change from his pockets.

So I give him the five dollars. I guess he's not the only sucker.


End file.
